


Foundations

by sailorkittycat



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, Fighting, Foundations, Kate Nash, back together, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorkittycat/pseuds/sailorkittycat
Summary: Tom and OC can’t live with each other but can’t live without each other either.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of 'Foundations' by Kate Nash

It was meant to be nice, quiet Thursday evening in but it felt like anything but; the atmosphere at the table was meant to be light and fun but had instead been thick and tense no matter how hard I tried to cover it up.

“Can you believe them?” I exclaimed twisting last night’s leftover spaghetti onto my fork “I practically died when I caught them” my face screwed up as I remembered the earlier events of the day where I had caught two of my co workers in a particularly passionate embrace in the stationary cupboard. It was meant to be a funny story, it had everything you’d want; embarrassment, partial nudity, even leopard print boxers (don’t ask) and yet Tom sat there stone faced as he chewed his dinner thoughtfully.

“I can only imagine” he said with a ghost of a smile. It was always like this. I had been with Tom for three and a half years now and while most couple would be thinking about marriage at this point, I was thinking of terminating our relationship. I gripped my fork a little harder, feeling the smooth metal press into the soft skin of my hand. I was trying to make an effort and the least he could have done was laugh, he was an actor for God’s sake, it wouldn’t matter if he faked it but instead he just continued to eat and ignore me as I stabbed at the pasta on my plate. Suddenly, I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

I knew Tom thought I was boring; he always had a particular expression on his face when I told him about my day. I could practically see the cogs in his head turn as he struggled to comment on what I had just told him. I thought that perhaps it was because my tales were always on the mundane side of things, after all he was a famous actor and had probably experienced all kinds of things much funnier than walking in on two people trying to have sex in a cupboard but did he share anything? Not at fucking all.

The worst would be when we’d go to parties together and I’d try and tell a story and he’d dismiss me like I was somehow inferior to him. Everyone else would laugh along with something I had said but I could hear the sigh and see the roll of his eyes like I was some sort of embarrassment to him. I wouldn’t take it though, no, I’d push back. Whenever he was spinning one of his stories (which no doubt, would be filled with endless name dropping just in case anyone forgot how famous and sensational he was) I’d sigh and roll my eyes “yeah, real funny darling” I’d say “why don’t you just have another beer, then?” I’d use a voice I knew he found particularly annoying to make him feel the burn of humiliation like I had. Tom was entirely predictable, he’d give me a tight smile or a sharp nudge which he’d cover with a jokey laugh as if we were having some sort of witty banter and this was one hundred percent totally normal for us. If he had been drinking a bit however, his jaw would shift and lock in place and he’d mutter “bitch” under his breath much to the unease of our mutual friends. At first I had felt mortified but as time had gone on and it had become a common occurrence, I stopped caring.

It was clear that things between us were more than rough and I spent a majority of my time wondering why we were still together. How could I still sleep in the same bed as a man who clearly didn’t like me? Then he’d turn over in his sleep, looking nothing less than ethereal from the way the trickle of moonlight highlighted the sharpness of his cheekbones and the paleness of his skin and he’d pull me closer, nuzzling against my hair and I’d forget about breaking up with him. His arms had always wrapped comfortably around me and I’d fit perfectly against his body so that he could rest his chin easily on the top of my head as if we were made for one another. It was wrong of me to ignore the fights we had all because he was good at cuddling but the sound of his heart beat paired with his gentle breathing erased any and all negative thoughts and I was always so willing to give into his warm embrace. I was so willing that I was beginning to hate how responsive I was to his touch. I desperately wanted to move on and forget Tom; maybe even find someone else who could love me without faltering but I couldn’t and it hurt.

The worst part was when I’d try to bring up the pressure between us, I knew he must feel it too but he’d shrug it off and the conversation would progress to some other random argument which had included such one-liners as:

“I can’t believe you right now! You must eat so many lemons because you’re so fucking bitter all the damn time!”

“I wish I was with someone who could actually give me an orgasm! Your friend Mark probably could; he’s certainly better looking than you!”

I had to admit that the last line had been something that had actually come out of my mouth and it was on the childish side of things but I took pleasure in watching Tom’s face redden in frustration as I knew that instead of being emotionless he’d actually felt something about me for once. A part of me had regretted my words and I was scared stiff wondering if he’d slap me for saying such a thing but instead he decided to prove me wrong about my statement concerning his inability to give me an orgasm. If I was really being honest, it gave me all kinds of thrills to wind him up like that. There was something undeniably attractive about seeing Tom getting all riled up; the sharpness of his jaw and the storminess of his eyes and the knowledge that he’d make me scream in pleasure instead of anger but it was a vicious circle and I was well aware of how unsustainable it all was even though we’d wake up the next morning and act as if there was no issues in our relationship at all. The ‘honeymoon period’ only lasts for so long but we would act so differently that in fact we could have been mistaken for completely different people but we’d always return. He’d be affectionate and attentive to me and in return I’d be sweet and courteous and everything would flow smoothly between us before it was all ruined. The cause of the ruin would usually be something small or simple like he’d keep stealing little dollops of icing that was meant for the cake I had just baked or I’d make a joke he’d take the wrong way and we’d find ourselves at each other’s throats in no time at all.

Tom would often go out on Friday nights, knowing that I’d prefer to stay in and unwind from the stress I’d been under during the week. It was a good arrangement as I could relax and catch up on all the TV programs I had recorded throughout the week whilst treating myself to some chocolate but dealing with hung over Tom the next morning was the worst. He was sensitive to the dimmest ray of light or any kind of noise and sometimes he’d be so irritable that he’d snap at me if I was breathing too loudly. I’d usually try and stay out on Saturdays so that I could escape his moodiness and not have to deal with his pasty face and his dark circles and the stomach churning smell of bile. I had woken up on one Saturday in particular to find myself half buried under him because (I could only assume) he had been too drunk to get into bed properly and I had to breathe in his morning breath and try to pull myself out from under his body. I had been quick in the bathroom, knowing that last night had probably been worst compared to the other nights and this was confirmed when I found my new shoes covered in vomit. My poor, beautiful oxblood red heels which I had been saving up for were completely ruined. That was £75 down the fucking drain because Tom decided to go and get wasted like the utter twat he was. I needed to avenge my gorgeous, sick stained shoes so I purposely didn’t turn the heating on even though the flat was freezing and I had to slip on another jumper to stop myself from getting hypothermia. I walked calmly back into the bedroom and sat on the armchair facing our bed, waiting for him to wake up. He had hell to pay for.

“What’re you doing?” He mumbled when he finally had the audacity to wake up at three in the afternoon “ugh, fuck, my head” he groaned, resting his head in his hands.

“You threw up on my shoes” I stated.

“What?”

“You vomited on my fucking shoes, Tom” I said louder causing him to groan again.

“So?”

“These were new shoes! I’ve been saving up for weeks to get them and then you ruined them just like you ruin everything!” I shouted and he pushed himself up to glare at me.

“I’ll get you new ones just shut up!” He growled, rubbing the sleep from out of his eyes.

“God, I hope I’m not stuck with you” I said looking at the poor excuse of a man propped up on the bed “I can’t do this anymore Tom!”

“Yeah well neither can I!”

“Well then I’m leaving!”

“Good!”

“Fine!”

I pulled out the suitcase from under the bed, it had began to gather dust since the last time I had pulled it out which was no more than six months ago where I found myself doing exactly the same thing. It was always like this, one of us would pack to leave and promise the other that the rest of our things would be gone soon and then we’d be apart for a week before we’d reconcile. Last time he had gone so it was my turn to leave now.

The cycle of breaking up and making up would inevitably continue. We were miserable with each other but we were worst when we were apart and there was no way out, no matter how hard we tried.


End file.
